


The Demon's Tithe

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Profane Hymns [3]
Category: Lucifer (Comic), Lucifer (TV), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom Michael, Boys Kissing, Cock Bondage, Cock Worship, Dom Lucifer, Dom Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Fisting, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Ribbon Bondage, Ribbons, Sub Michael, Top Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 07:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: "I'm curious to see what you will do." Michael breathes softly. "You always were an artist, love."Pale skin, muscle strong enough to bring down walls, and all that terrible power restrained by nothing more than matter -- such a flimsy bond -- and by desire."I could paint you like this," Lucifer replies. "A sight worth capturing on canvas. These hands outstretched, your wings wide, your legs open in welcome, your cock hard, an esteemed image for a private collection." This from the man capable of forgetting nothing, unable to resist the proof before him. "Capture you in all your glory thus for you to look upon whenever you wish."





	The Demon's Tithe

**Author's Note:**

> The final coda of the first movement: Michael gets what's coming to him from the hands of his elder brother. Lucifer is not about to let this opportunity pass him by. 
> 
> As ever, I welcome feedback, comments, and kudos. You can follow me [on Tumblr](http://scarlettsletters.tumblr.com) and leave any requests.

"Wait."    
  
On such pronouncements did the whole of Hell rotate around its golden-haired master, an unchallenged pride gleaming upon him even in the diminished state. Putting his foot to the terrace floor, Lucifer flexes his knee and pushes himself upright. The molecule-thick layer of his plumage reflects the glorious dance of Saturnine rings, each ice particle individually unimpressive and thin, but when shot by the sunlight and planetary glow, the collective is perhaps the most arresting vision in the whole solar system. Stacked feathers flexed and spread in a wide circle, he wraps his arms around Michael's midsection to pull him upright, holding the younger seraph fast.   
  
So much easier to go walking into a bedroom, abandoning the terrace and the glimmering shades of the night falling around a city aflame in humanity's terror of the night -- fluorescent lights, neon glow, smeared halo of a burning artificial sun. 

Michael gained some experience in matters of the flesh forbidden otherwise to angels, courtesy of willing mortals. But Lucifer is the past master. He comes willingly to that bed, wings trailing behind him like cloud-wrack, expression dazed, body still glowing like approaching dawn. 

Wherever the current hoist leaves Michael, tongue, teeth, and lips renew their assault in earnest, marking his skin in a duet that alternates on the chords of pleasure and a dot or two of pain. Sadist? Not precisely, but Lucifer is same as his near-twin: they are beyond such simple definitions, surpassing the limitations of mortal flesh. Striking to bite the hip bone or lave the flat abdominal muscles down, teasingly down, is part of the point.  


Sprawled across the bed, Michael remains graceful even in awkward repose, as if no flung posture could ever leave either of them less than aesthetic. But always eloquent in that unfeigned delight, he voices his pleasure. No compunction, no restraint in his response, caressing what of Lucifer he can reach, crying out softly at some pang of pleasure or pain, quivering like a struck chime. 

On his back again, he rests with his wings outspread and draped, as if he'd been shot out of the sky or brought down by sheer collapse, like Icarus.

Glad they have the expectation laid out, now to act upon it. The Morningstar's bed rarely sees him for sleep, given the absence of slumber is one of the hallmarks of their kind. Sleep, perchance to dream... and dream of what? 

A pillaging of shelves and rolling drawers provide him exactly what he seeks, the tinctures made for purposes other than casual inebriation. "How far, Michael, do I send you careening this time? What denial will land on your tongue? Every form of lovemaking is an art, and every wisp of art adds an evocative dimension to the physical subduing and destruction.” 

The Destroyer destroyed, the General in willing surrender. The officers of the Host, do they know somehow, must be shrieking and chattering amongst themselves like an outraged Host. Michael sighs, his eyes closing,   


He drops four of those bottles on the bed adjacent Michael's ankle and casually tears off a strip of the unfitted sheet; not that anyone  _ needs _ such a thing. Wide as his wrist, that smooth Egyptian linen in the highest of thread counts serves a purpose entirely straightforward as he dignifies the seraph's ankle andt thigh in a twist of white, looped back and forth to engage a serviceable knot. Hardly as if Michael cannot break free when he wants to, if he should so desire, but the purpose is what it is, restraint for its own sake.    
  
Besides, the younger angel is not without stimulus, every centimeter between the arch of his foot to the anchor point of his long inner thigh muscles surveyed by a kiss, punctuated by the odd bite here and there.   
  
Michael abandons his dignity entirely, watching Lucifer bind him. "As far as you like," he says, simply. "I can't imagine denying you in this." As if it made sense that he be jessed like a hawk, he proves willing to play along. He tests the restraints, but to nothing like breaking.   
  
Another length, the other side. Tearing cotton lies in the air as the supple cloth weaves and twists around Michael's leg, confining him in the similar means as the first. His knees point up, feet flat to the mattress, free to be pressed down to lay his shins in a wide angle with relative comfort. Not by any means the most durable option, but the one the golden-haired archangel employs. He repeats a tracing kiss that winds and churns past every celebrated figment of Michael's leg, giving dulcet attentions at the knee and higher still to his hip. Bites and kisses meld together into a serpentine meander of a Celtic knot: where he lingers, Michael ends up marked. Temporarily, surely, but the healing factor needs not concern anyone. No intent to hurt permanently.   
  
Dark, wide silk ribbon procured from a drawer might be the oddity. Ends loop around the cotton at the upper end of the thigh bindings, placed perpendicular to gain anchorage. Lucifer ties off one side and promptly turns the ends into another kind of restriction usually requiring different material altogether -- rubber, silicone, leather being the preferred ones -- as he wraps the silk in neat, nested twists around the base of that glorious shaft yet, likely, to be treated in such a fashion. The fit is snug, with a purpose, though not deadly constrictive. Like all good bondage, reminders executed in the tangible so often become the intangible, webs of thought cocooned in the reality of a position.

One thigh wrapped, then the other, and he binds the two ends in a bow of sorts laid tight and snug around Michael's cock, exposing the crown and a generous mouthful of the shaft below that. Purpose to the madness; those angled silk bow ends tickle at every twitch, and Lucifer knows it.    
  
A kiss below them, as reminder, a kiss on the knot, a kiss where silk surrenders to skin. "Now." Musing, aloud, is unnecessary, isn't it? Lucifer smirks. "Whatever shall I do with you?"   
  
Subdued simply by kisses, let alone linen and silk. He shivers and arches at those last bindings. "I'm curious to see what you  _ will _ do." Michael breathes softly.    
  
"You always were an artist, love." Pale skin, muscle strong enough to bring down walls, and all that terrible power restrained by nothing more than matter -- such a flimsy bond -- and by desire. It's not the old days when they were one of many, chief singers in the heavenly chorus. But Lucifer's attentions are still a reunion, in so many ways.

"I could paint you like this," Lucifer replies. "A sight worth capturing on canvas. These hands outstretched, your wings wide, your legs open in welcome, your cock hard, an esteemed image for a private collection." This from the man capable of forgetting nothing, unable to resist the proof before him. "Capture you in all your glory thus for you to look upon whenever you wish."

Not so much a sop as an offering in kind, for composing the likeness in paint or charcoal is infinitely easy for the two who shaped solar systems and made the horrific error with leopard seals, too good at what they do. 

Michael lowers his gaze to stare at his own erect skin, the brilliant contrast between the astonishing shade of the ribbon and his flushed skin.  


The Morningstar settles upon the bed and holds up one of those glass vials, pinching the lid off and setting it aside. The oil glazes a hint of mint to the air, and pours out generously across the chest of the lightning-pricked archangel. To Michael, that oil is spread out and kneaded in, aid accepted by otherwise offered undemanding. Thin trails spread over pectoral muscles, concentrated firmly on his nipples. Within short order the secret of it is bound to be clear: mint feels terribly cold when exposed to air, a contrast seeping into the veins.

"What have you done that you enjoyed? What didn't you like?" Lucifer never questions idly. Conversation is strange when decoupling someone from inexperience, no?   
  
Shivering for a different reason, the slow icicle drag of the mint unites with the first cause of pinpricked desire. Michael stretches in the bonds, teeth chattering, that teased skin tightening. Not so much absolute cold as the relative chill.    
  
"I've liked everything so far. Men and women. And if you wish," he adds, as a flush creeps up his throat, spurred by the idea of that image, no doubt an obscene masterpiece, considering its creator.   
  
Afterwards, not now, for the art of drawing departs from the act of leaving one broken in pleasure at the cusp of the world. Held in the palm, sheltered against ruin, that will be the hour to proceed. But the elder seraph withdraws, sliding to the end of the bed, and lowering the sheet of his opaque feathers in a veil draped over Michael's midsection to deny what's to be seen.   
  
For reason, assuredly, as those wickedly gifted fingers push the younger seraph's knees back to his chest, leaving his lower back nearly vertical to the ceiling. Ribbon tugs taut around his cock, slack elsewhere, controlled by the splay of his knees apart. Betimes they are guided to spread or tugged askew for that ribbon to constrict and ease on rigid flesh.    
  
As for Lucifer himself, he sets himself to bombarding unattended nerves with their proper due, returning once more to embark on suckling and tonguing the rosy puckered starburst with a vengeance.   
  
Now it all makes sense, those bindings. All the better to add to it, as the bindings shift over sensitive skin. Michael see past those curtaining pinions formed of pure light, but sight isn't needed at all. Sensation detonates like a bomber walking its payload up a beach, neat rows. His head goes back on the pillow. His own wings rise and stroke the air once -- not gripping as if he'd lift off, but a futile batting that still sends a draft blowing through the bedroom.    
  
Willingness splays his legs, coming up against the bonds, and sending a quivering through him. Has he ever known restraint before? Ever been bound? Likely never.   
  
Good this is new, for how many newnesses are the two eldest beings in the universe entitled to? In their long lives, most experiences surely are known in some variation or another, but this? A precondition of being the Devil, find ways to unlock the psyche and Michael's mind by temptation.    
  
Lucifer's glowing wings sweep lazily along Michael's chest, painting the remnants of the oil and easing the evaporation as the cooling factor sets in. Soft-edged feathers trail up and down from collarbone to nipple and back, dusting him. The only interruption is a fingertip circling the rim of his entrance, pressing down.   
  
The General -- destroyer, the prince of Heaven -- arches in time with those passages, and gasps as it tightens the bonds on him. To be laid low in that way brings no shame, only an enhanced sense of urgent delight. Shivers race in tandem with the cooling oil and that tickling, teasing sensation. 

Temptation is a plunge of the tongue into that tight muscle, delving inside the puckered ring as far as he possibly can. He suckles a little, but those lips are a seal, the muscle pointed and curling, performing the lion's share of the work until he turns his head, back and forth a little, adjusting to that, too.  


Muscle puckers beneath that deliberating finger, and Michael shifts on the bed, rocking his hips up a fraction higher, wordless offering made. A trembling note held behind his teeth is hummed more than sung.   
  
Truly Lucifer cannot speak so occupied, but he might, withdrawing his tongue and introducing two fingers laced in a thick enough oil. A second bottle, this one larger, gives a rather copious amount to work with atop the almond oil lapped away or delved in. Lucifer uses a heady amount, poured out over the delicate muscle and the depths inside. A bit thumbed back and forth around Michael's rim means to ease friction, slickness created for the sake of working in two fingers next to one another.    
  
Anything else on Michael's part is meant for sheer sensation, since the hand supporting his hip slides under his back to the space between his shoulder blades. Caresses and light tickle of nails course along the tender race of skin, even as the fingertips slide down and back, slowly advancing. No rush here: if it takes fifteen minutes to breach past the first knuckle, so be it. All the more to make the archangel raise his voice.   


Not so long. That, at least, Michael tried before under the gentle hands of a mortal lover.    


There are even goosebumps, horsefly skin shivers. A loose roll of hips tightens that bond to the point that it's almost painful, but he cannot bring himself to relax and release the ribbon constricting his cock and balls. His hands are fisted in the bedclothes as if their use would be cheating, breaking the rules of the game. Remembering to push air in and out, though he doesn't need to breathe, the rhythm lures him in. Just in case Lucifer requires speech and song.   
  
Not so long, but ever so slow. Fingertips delve and dance, twisting in time to his undulations. What Michael has taken before is certain to be encouraged twofold, the flick of a tongue accompanying those gentle ministrations that rotate to widen him somewhat the further. Lucifer's golden hair adds another element, shrouding the base of Michael's shaft and the wobbling sack, his balls brushed over in lightest caresses. Occasionally the Morningstar’s mouth follows to remonstrate any sort of movement with a long, slow suckling kiss, pulling out heat and passion in the same demand.   
  
"You seem to be enjoying yourself." Brimming eyes don't follow through the folded veil of his wing, gazing down. Gemstone voice resonating a thrumming passion, he presses a third finger into the mix, pressing down lightly with inexorable patience. No doubt the mind can seize on the notion where this is going, even with his thumb stroking along the diminishing curve of the buttock where it meets the central divide. "And it's my pleasure to leave you senseless in bliss, Michael. To show you just what this body is capable of before it becomes too much."   
  
The bounce of laughter thunders through the younger seraph for a moment before it changes to a murmur of guttural pleasure. The dynamics between fingers, mouth, hair, bonds silken and linen make him pause and gasp. "Yes," he says, with that brightness in his voice. No sweat to betray him, the way there is for mortals, but the glow steadies to a deep rose, barely distinguishable. More as if light were being shone on him, than from him, as Lucifer bears down. "Thank you." Muscle yields further to lips and tongue;  he has done this before, and he knows the value of relaxation.

Sucking the taste of his flesh is a pleasure, in a way, one profoundly wanton for someone with near infinite patience. Complications follow as Lucifer bows his head and licks along that terribly sensitive line of muscle spanning the upper delving of his fingers and the red ribbon twined around Michael's length, the bow inverted but no matter. The tongues of the ribbon really do not compare to the trail of warm velvet, dancing curls of undulating gold. Each pass is incredibly slow, exploring every last crenellation and dip, testing the elasticity with considerable pressure in counterpoint to the sweep of his thumb meaning to soften up the resistance of the muscle.

Hard, then, perhaps to hear the response muffled against his own flesh over the oiled trajectory of fingers delving in, turning to feel every last secretive, unexplored inch they possibly can. There is a determination to explore as much as a detached gentleness, the better to respond to that relaxation. Palm resting on his buttock for balance, Lucifer's shoulder against his leg keeps him from wobbling back or forth. Important, really, given three fingers and the tease of that pinkie being squeezed in alongside, pressure wedged down in a narrowing arrowhead up to the knuckles. "What do you need more of, love?"

"You," he says, tender, even as he frankly writhes. No more respect for the network of bindings ɨn scarlet silk; the ribbon bondage will do what it was designed to do, that terrible strength not exerted to break it. Playing the game in earnest, Michael defers to his sibling's efforts. The swoops of mouth and tongue make his back go rigid, arched in presentation. Powerful hands slowly knot the linens he grips, but not tearing them. "I want you. Take me. Or shall I beg?" Still couched in that gentle tone, with only the faintest edge behind it all.

"Have you ever?" The question fired alongside a well-placed bite to the meat of the buttock will raise a bruise on anyone else and hints only a little at the incipient violence Lucifer is capable of, and would deliciously unleash given the opportunity. He twists his fingers back and forth, testing the quivering muscle bearing down on them and in turn resisting it with brutal efficiency eased by that copious amount of lubricant spattered over his skin. His other hand slides right back up along the smooth skin traced taut between spread wings, and he rakes his nails in perfect parallel lines, all the way down to the tailbone. He scores a diagonal line.

Writhing is a beautiful sight and not nearly enough for the taskmaster of Hell, not by half. His is a curious alignment of tastes, scissoring up restraint and violence and charm and a sensate's hedonistic bliss. His thumb flickering along the besieged ring dips in and out against his palm, bites and kisses bestowed in liberal array. "Open. Let me in to give this to you. Let me hear you sing, Michael."

Michael has to think about it for a bit. "Not like this. Not in bed. Not for a long time," he says. Each bite, each sharp touch, makes him flinch. But even pain is not displeasure. Not when the body is a vessel in the way it never is for the merely mortal. His spine curls in the path of those nails, belly hollowing. The silken bonds tighten in a way that'd have a real human begging for mercy, but only makes him growl softly. That hand beneath makes him jolt, writhe again upon it, writhing against the tightening grip of his anal ring against the fingers buried in him. Silken rustling of feathers echo as he moves. But he ventures a few notes aloud: the basso line that's his role in the chorus, a quoted phrase like a mockingbird.

Time to make that bird truly sing, then, two sharp pulls on either side of the ribbon as Lucifer bars his arm across the spread of Michael's knees, pushing them apart as far as the tendons possibly allow. Cruelty is not leveraged in his being, but he neither allows any sort of tenderness to linger there either. Sliding the one leg opposite him, he pulls his feathered wing back in a sharp snap to reveal exactly where he is poised to perform, the moment he bends to capture that thick bell-end between his lips and swallows Michael's cock right up to the point silk dampens under the moist heat of his lips. Pulling comparatively up puts the shaft perpendicular to Michael's belly, all the better for him to suck without having to perform some unique acrobatics.

Sound spills out of him in a chord, the lowest note enough to rattle glass. The oldest form of speech, before bodies or words. A question, but not a protest, rolls over them. His body doesn't protest, though strength lies behind the grip of muscle on those slick fingers. He shifts sharp enough to make the linen twang tight. Trust is wrought eloquent in all his lines -- what Lucifer intends, he'll go along with. His wings have curled in a little, as if tightening for a stoop.

Suction without fierce intent yet, Lucifer refrains from applying heavy pressure. Oil spills and the thick lubricant given a shot of something conspicuously warming, not cooling, serves his purpose. He thrusts his fingers firmly inward, forcing the narrow aperture wider. Michael must ride him down. Inexorably down, until either a bleat of protest or a cry stop his progress until then. None comes. Progress continues as the tight ring slides over his conical fingers, forced over his knuckles, hitting above his fine-boned wrist, treachery by any other name. His gaze flickers up to watch his brother's beloved face, searching for the landmark hints of pain or fear.

None such fear or terror exists. The hitched attempts at breath fail entirely and Michael remains open and spread on his back. Significance and size of the achievement are lost to him, his head thrown back. Wings trace stirring whorls in the air, the delicate structures releasing a soft dawn glow over his arching body and Lucifer's golden hair.

Spread fingers curl in on themselves, blooming in reverse, and give moments to adjust. Michael's walls flutter around him and Lucifer explores in initially slow, soft touches. Withdrawing digits tease back and push deep again, a slow dance meant to drive the seraph to heights of shaking pleasure.

Ah, yes, that perfect intention laid out plain: he moves in steady motions, never going strictly to a single tempo but spreading himself out across the spectrum with an instinctive knowledge of the lyrics and the rhythm of the celestial chorus itself. Michael sings to the music of the spheres in the rustling of his wings and the shivering of his feathers, pushing down, dragging sweet and hard across the open space. 

While Michael exists in that space, the only physical reminder in the sudden slow churn, rotating in determination to throw everything askew. With that comes the inevitable sucking of his length right up to the ribbon and back again, Lucifer's tongue dancing tales of dread and fascination around the crown, treading a careful path while teeth scrape gently back and forth. He follows Michael's lead without pride.

Lucifer witnesses the younger seraph changing, the song soft and thready, but in time with what unfolds in his body. Praise for Lucifer, longing, pleasure, gives a counter harmony to the wicked, obscene sounds breaking around the assertion of lubricating oil and strained muscle. The scrape of teeth doesn't make him falter, but brings sharper notes in, and the tips of his wings flare and quiver, each primary distinct as a finger. Every plume remains flushed with rosy light.

Teeth, then, grate from root to tip, polished off by the rapid rotation of his tongue. For all that transpires, Lucifer’s attention lies on the endless delving of his closed fist, knuckles pressed here and there, allowing for some measure of sensation. Searching, doubtlessly, for that one particularly sensitive spot, he will not lay off until he finds it and presses down to leave the heavens ablaze in their wake. Not enough to even supply that when the rigid pleasure of Michael's descent into those new depths has to be rushed, pushed onwards.

The Morningstar betrays that own satisfaction, hard himself, unable to deny releasing the heavy weight from his mouth to bite along the exposed inner line of the thigh and slap the skin twice to a rosy blush. His feathers entangle and brush among the dawn-fire glow, drinking and reflecting, silvery as a blade of dusk.

When Lucifer hits his prostate, it breaks the song into single notes, thread of melody lost. Michael's spine bows with pleasure, curling him up, hands pressed behind to support him. He finally speaks again. "What you're doing, I can't last much longer, please, let me..."

Wings spill loose again, ends off the bed, down like a broken hawk's. He bites his lip, straining, calm eroded away, but not fighting. The rhythmic clench of muscle milks his brother's fist, his climax building. It won't be under his control that much longer.

Ah, there the sonnet transcends any hope of the flesh. He purrs to the slinking backbeat of a sultry note, and adds another lavished kiss on the inner crease of the thigh, tongue flickering. "You want to come." A question that isn't, registered in the manifold harmonies of the angelic voice emergent from behind the mortal shell. It sings to the incipient damnation, even as he wrings out every last spark in the push further down upon that one dense cluster of nerves. Dragging out every last caress, as deep as he dares go, that kneading massage from within is matched by mutely taking up the job of stroking Michael's length in rapid order.

Lucifer’s tongue laps along the crown, not quite closing his lips around the bell. Every vibrating tremor shaking the seraph is enough to warrant a cloudy smile, toying with the unraveling edges of Michael's control. Pushing him to the edge and holding him there is a sublime experience and just as mad as anything, for what can he really claim to control where lightning crashes and tension lifts into the thickened atmosphere of a black-violet summer squall? Choices, then; does the Morningstar stay or go? He could remain, and hold that dominance in a fashion or --

Pleasure ripples through him, body moving with the kind of sinuousness reserved for the dancers among mortals. "Yes, please, how I want to. Please let me." All humility, no martial pride at all. That hard length twitches within those calculated kisses.

Lucifer’s hand is pulled free in one inexorable go, dragged back against locked muscle, turned to tease it open for him to free himself. "You can when I'm in you. Not before." Taut, dark words rain down in bracing the angel, extracting them once more. At least the plain transfer between hand and achingly tight hardness, the easier to adjust to, won't be a slow one. Presumably.

And then that sudden absence, emptiness, shatters Michael; he cries aloud in loss. One heartbreaking note like crystal shattering, radiates all the longing for union, for release. Body splayed over the bed in utter abandon, the look he gives Lucifer desperate, almost accusing. How can he be left like this?

"Greedy. You'd want me stretching you too far, to never be empty and satisfied?" A question that isn't, the implications not clearly given either. 

Lucifer rolls onto his knees, consciously aware of the bindings and that shaking, keening note pealing through every disrupted atomic structure around them. What sort of chaos radiates around the disturbed neutrons, spinning electrons chiming in the same anguished blow? 

Greed nonetheless is a vice and he understands it all too well, pushed over. He grips at Michael's hips, dragging him back down the bed to the black hole insisting on its due. For the brief instant he considers flipping over the darker-haired angel, but so much easier to sweep his knees up and leave him exposed, open, waiting. Waiting for the kiss of that hard, silken caress where fingers plied, tracing the open circle, a ragged revolution. Another retrograde trace, and the tightening grip on Michael's legs gives him probably a proper precursor of what comes.

For all the universe he wears a beatific look, of saints in ecstasy or an angel who is, if not fallen, then definitely brought low. All the statues have the order reversed: Michael calm and serene in his armor, Lucifer only a symbol or a parody beneath his spear. Will Lucifer paint this one, the look on his face, suffering and the keenest edge of desire?

Lucifer doesn't even give a kiss to spare the full, slamming thrust of his hips deep inside Michael or the equally fast withdrawal, a sampling that eases off the sensual impact. With no one else can he unleash his strength or need. Hanging over his brother closes the circle with their primary feathers, a shuddering course that emphasizes every small gesture. More important to watch the transfixed expression, everything that is the younger brother in chaos, set alight, and churning to a higher cadence. Though it's not as though Lucifer is ever out of reach -- a truth for the Morningstar. Closer than you think. He leans to kiss that beloved, arrogant mouth into ruin.

Exposed and impatient, the first thrust makes Michael cry out in something between pain and triumph and satisfaction, a descending spill of notes that rolls through him like a tide. Reaching up finally, he drags Lucifer's head down for a kiss of his own.

Lucifer yearns to knead and sculpt flesh under his hands. Annihilation in the admixture of energetic thrusts and deliberately angled strokes will suffice where paints are forgotten, brushes scattered. What they can do with their hands is greater than any other media. He caresses to lead Michael unto the ravaged edge of oblivion. He can see for himself the effects on the other archangel, and that is sufficient by half to illuminate the long night ahead.

They've but barely started before he bends forward, the allegory of yielding daybreak, flames in every articulated tine of a feather collectively shining with the light. Shimmering dust reflects the low-simmering flames into a bright shock, wavering through spectra that sing and dance ultraviolet in flashes. He melts into the heat wrapped around him, yielding and devout in the meeting of their mouths. And whatever else, the madness drift off him in ghostly wisps, revealing a glimmer of what was, fallen and glorious.

And still so beloved. There are arms around Lucifer, gathering him close, the song poured between his lips. The old particular refrain, specific in its praise, infuses every sound even as the physical efforts jolt and disrupt and make him falter. Pleasure burns through Michael, and he surrenders to it with none of a mortal's doubt or self-consciousness. As if there could be nothing in the worlds more right than this reunion.

Unfair to claim love when fallen, unfair to ask when unclear. The old circle of limbs and wings and dreams capsizes with all the rest, and that faltering routine will be pushed on by the one not wracked by all the dregs of oblivion quite yet. Cradled and thrusting down, down into the bed, the Morningstar's symphonic silence tests the mattress, hammering the headboard into the wall, and otherwise steady enough to set music to. Ironic, that. Michael's mouth is ravaged by way of tender kisses and delving of tongues, a sharing of songcraft sweetly tendered betwixt them. 

Heat burns in every extremity as they crush into a space smaller, more intimate than has right to be, wings enfolded, arms closed about. Release rushes down steep and hot upon them, the molten rush of Michael coming spilling white lines across their bellies. Lucifer follows but a moment later, the heated rush filling that forbidden space.

In the end whom cries to whom?

  
  



End file.
